


Fine Needlework, Among Other Skills

by R00bs_Teacup



Series: Canon Compliant Universe [3]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Injury, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-08
Updated: 2016-02-08
Packaged: 2018-05-19 04:52:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,180
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5954296
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/R00bs_Teacup/pseuds/R00bs_Teacup
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The story of how Aramis went for soldiering to the musketeers, how he saved Richelieu's life. Told to Porthos at Poitier, after the 'trussed up' injury (mentioned in 'Commodities').</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fine Needlework, Among Other Skills

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Thimblerig](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thimblerig/gifts).



> WARNINGS: death. Aramis kills a LOT of people. 
> 
> You don't really need to read the other stories in the series, they all stand alone, pretty much.

“I'm tired,” Porthos says, voice slurring.

 

Aramis redistributes Porthos's weight across his shoulders, taking a little more of it, and keeps walking. Porthos carries on staggering.

 

“Tired. Talk, 'mis,” Porthos repeats, quietly. “Please.”

 

“I... can't... talk... … and walk,” Aramis pants, sucking in lung-fulls of the frigid air. “Too fat.”

 

“We'll ge' y'in shape,” Porthos assures, both knees giving out at once and almost dumping them both onto the frozen hard ground.

 

“Come on, Porthos,” Aramis says, standing still while Porthos gets his legs under him again. “Nearly there.”

 

“Liar,” Porthos mutters, but gets his legs working again.

 

Aramis is surprised Porthos is still up and lucid. There's a deep gash in his back, and he's got at least one broken rib. The gash is tugged together with Aramis's quick stitches, but he had no bandages, so they're open to the air under Porthos's shirt. Porthos had howled and cursed when Aramis tried to get him into his jacket, so he's just wearing his torn and bloodied shirt. Athos has gone ahead to find them somewhere to sleep, maybe some horses. Amyot and Giraud are somewhere behind, somewhere way off in the other direction, off to finish the mission.

 

“Couldn't... have ducked,” Aramis grumbles, as they stagger onwards.

 

“Did. Nearly m'head,” Porthos says, knees going again.

 

“Stop talking... makes you fall,” Aramis says, waiting.

 

Porthos hums agreement, getting one leg under him. His other leg drags as they go onwards, and Porthos starts to cry, tears rolling over his cheeks unchecked.

 

“Saved Richelieu's life... once,” Aramis gasps, heaving Porthos onwards. “Bad choice... huh?”

 

“Mm,” Porthos agrees, then lets out a sob. “Sto...sto...stop. Pl...”

 

Aramis stops, turning, pulling Porthos into a hug, holding him up. Porthos grips Aramis tight, arms spasming, face pressing into his uniformed shoulder. Aramis gets his breath, rubbing over Porthos's back, soothing him.

 

“Poitiers isn't far,” Aramis promises, for the third time. “Nearly there.”

 

“Liar,” Porthos whispers, also not for the first time. “ _God_.”

 

“Keep walking till we pass out,” Aramis says. “Too cold.”

 

“God,” Porthos whispers, voice hoarse. Then he straightens up, sniffing, and braces himself, tucking Aramis back under his good side. “Righ'. Till I faint, eh?”

 

“It's freezing,” Aramis says.

 

They set off again, Porthos's breath coming ragged and harsh in Aramis's ear.

 

“Richelieu,” Aramis says. “Picked me out of... regiment. Looked... pretty.”

 

“Pretty?” Porthos asks.

 

“Mm. Clean, he said,” Aramis says, then pauses, panting. “Fat.”

 

“Know y'are,” Porthos says.

 

“Alright. Clean. Shaved. Put m'in smart clothes. All...” Aramis pauses to get his breath again, shifting Porthos's weight. “All fashionable... court. Flounces an' ruffles an' silly stockings. Shoes.”

 

Porthos grinds out a laugh, and Aramis smiles.

 

“Mm. Land owners,” Aramis says. “In Paris... God... land owners, taxes, loyalty.”

 

“Get th'pict... oh,” Porthos staggers, heavier than before, nearly taking them to the ground. “Shh. S'ry.”

 

“Easy,” Aramis breathes. He can feel wet against his knuckles. Porthos is bleeding again. Not good. They need to keep moving, though, because if they stop, Porthos is going down and not getting up again. “Yeah. Intelligence he said... boring.”

 

“Fighting?”

 

“None. Nothing came,” Aramis says, breaking to breathe again. “Came of it... just rumours, just mumbles. Was a young rich... family name. Nothing came of it, back into th'army. Next time, into other regiment, same family name...”

 

“Spy,” Porthos breathes.

 

“Of a sort. Soldier again, though. Moved about a bit. Here, there. Soldiering. Listening,” Aramis pauses to listen now, frowning. Hoofbeats. Aramis changes course to intercept and keeps moving. “Nothing much, just scraps... Protestant here... Spanish loyalty there...”

 

“Clean,” Porthos mutters.

 

“I know, I know. Thought it would advance... me. Ambition... Any... way. Protestant... unhappy. Soldiers, no nobility. Restless, not threat... Cardinal... pulled me.”

 

“Out'a?”

 

“Yeah. To go. Didn't know, didn't ask. Just him, me, guard. Two reds. Rode towards Estampes. Fifty, sixty kilometres. Shot guard. Cardinal shot. On we go. Meeting. Monastery. Land owners. See? Full circle.”

 

“Y'r int'l,” Porthos moans.

 

“Exact. Standing... round. Me 'n red,” Aramis swallows. The horse is coming on. Soon. It's just one rider. Hopefully Athos. “Nearly there, beautiful.”

 

“Nearly there,” Porthos agrees, knees giving way.

 

“Not yet, not yet!” Aramis says.

 

Porthos moans, eye-lids fluttering. He's grey, with pain and exhaustion and blood-loss. Aramis hoists him up.

 

“Come on, come on. That's it, stay with me,” he says, unable to do anything except talk.

 

“Mm,” Porthos mumbles.

 

His eyes stay shut, but his leg straightens. Just the one. It'll do. Aramis heaves them forwards.

 

“Standing... 'bout... Card... inal... busy,” Aramis continues, grunting with the effort of half-carrying Porthos. “God, fat... bell goes, ringing... not time... wrong... stopped. Breathe. Red still chattering... shh. Athos!”

 

The horse nears them, then comes into view, crashing through the undergrowth. Aramis has been following a trail, but it's a path, not a road. There are trees, but it's not a forest. Just a lot of things it's not. It is Athos, he wheels around them, leaping from the saddle and catching Porthos as he sinks to the ground.

 

“Up you go,” Athos says.

 

It takes a bit more than that to actually get Porthos onto the horse. They try and get him on properly, but he's done, and isn't helping at all, so they shove and push and put him lying across in front of the saddle. The horse is huge, eighteen or nineteen hands of horse, of the type commonly used in place of oxen, so Aramis and Athos both mount. Porthos grunts and groans all the way, but it's only ten minutes ride. Aramis keeps a hand on his shoulder, trying to keep him from tearing his stitches.

 

“Can't believe he's still conscious,” Aramis mutters, as they drag Porthos, legs trying to get under him, into a farm house.

 

Athos pushes them through to a big room, a fire lit, a bed set. They drop Porthos onto it, and Aramis at once begins working his shirt away from the wound.

 

“I need water,” he says.

 

Athos already has some warming on the fire, and he brings Aramis a bowl. Aramis uses his knife to cut away the shirt. Porthos won't be happy, but Aramis doesn't care. He uses the water to peel the cloth away where it's stuck with blood. It starts the bleeding again, and Aramis checks the stitches. Three are torn, so he cuts them away. Athos hands him a cloth to staunch the bleeding and is already preparing a needle and thread.

 

Aramis tugs Porthos onto the bed, keeping a hand pressed to his wound. He settles Porthos on his side, using the pillows to support him from the front, keeping as much pressure off his ribs as possible.

 

“Needle,” Aramis demands, holding out a hand. “I'll need bandages.”

 

Athos hands over the needle, and, by the time Aramis has re-done the stitches, has bandages to hand over. The bleeding's slowed by this time, and Aramis has slowed down, too, tiring quickly. He binds the wound, wrapping all the way around Porthos's back and over his shoulder.

 

“M'story,” Porthos mumbles, when they're done, putting his hand out and catching Aramis's wrist.

 

“Let me get a drink, some food,” Aramis begs, patting Porthos's hand.

 

“Mm-mm. The bell. Never get it out 'a you, 'therwise. Won't... till you tell,” Porthos says.

 

“Fine,” Aramis says, getting onto the bed and replacing the pillow with himself, sitting against the wall.

 

Athos brings him wine, and water, and a chunk of bread with some cheese and a tomato. Aramis puts some cheese in his mouth and washes it down with wine before going on with the tale.

 

“I was standing outside the monastery, one red guard with me, the Cardinal inside. The bell was going, and I didn't know why. It rings for prayers and meals and so on, but it should have been quieted for the meeting, and there was nothing at this time for it to ring for anyway. I decided to go have a look.”

 

“Mm,” Porthos mumbles. “M'ribs.”

 

“Are you feeling sore?” Aramis asks, rubbing Porthos's neck and shoulders.

 

Athos kneels behind Porthos and puts a pillow under his head, then gently lifts Porthos's arm and gives him the second pillow to hold. Porthos mumbles something, so Athos presses his arm to the pillow to show him. Porthos imitates it, breathing deeply, then hums.

 

“Better?” Aramis asks.

 

“Mm-hmm. Wine nex'time,” Porthos says, smirking.

 

“When you can sit up a little,” Aramis agrees. “Rest, for now, hmm?”

 

“Hmm.”

 

“I climbed up to the bell tower. Didn't see any monks, but I thought they'd all be busy elsewhere, or tucked away, while their home was invaded by important people trying to come to a fractious agreement. I would certainly stay out of the way. There was no one in the bell tower. I stilled the bell and climbed up into the room that housed the bell itself, and found three monks.”

 

“Dead?” Porthos asks.

 

“Yes. I think the sound, I think it killed them. So close to the bell. I looked out, down to where we'd been on watch, and the red guard was lying on the ground, dead. Jean Coté. He was a good man. I considered my options. I was in a monastery, a house of God, in the middle of nowhere. No one knew where we were. Except, I now know, Teville. They used to run things like that together. Before Treville started to try and get the king away from Richelieu's all encompassing influence, anyway.”

 

“He's going to get us all into trouble this way one day,” Athos says, drily, from by the fire.

 

“Probably,” Aramis agrees. “I didn't know that, then. As far as I knew there was never going to be anyone coming. I didn't know why everyone was dead, but I knew that the Cardinal was probably the target. I had, during my months as his spy, got pretty good at being stealthy. Walking silently, checking rooms and corridors before entering, scoping out nooks and crannies to hide. I made it halfway to the room I knew the meeting was in before I met anyone. It was an armed man, looked like a militia man. I, uh, slit his throat.”

 

“Keep him quiet,” Athos says, nodding.

 

“Yes. There were men guarding the door, to the room where the Cardinal was. Three men. There was a monk, coming down the passage. I... tripped him. Gently. He fell, and one of the guards came to check. I killed him, too. Dragged them both away, stripped the monk and took his habit. The other two guards asked me where their pal was. I caught one, hand over his mouth, and when the other came at me, I went for his throat. Silenced him. That was four dead.”

 

“Efficient,” Porthos whispers, hand covering Aramis's thigh.

 

“Richelieu picks his spies carefully,” Aramis says. “Trains them. I didn't...” Aramis trails off and shrugs. He's always going to be able to kill like this, now. “The door was unguarded.”

 

“Now,” Porthos interjects, snorting softly. “Unguarded now. Once you got done.”

 

“I see you're getting your breath back,” Aramis says. “Took your time. I still say you're too fat.”

 

“Ohhh, you meant _me_ ,” Porthos says. “Thought you meant _you_ , with that belly.”

 

Porthos pats the belly in question, laughing carefully and holding his ribs, holding himself together. Aramis takes advantage of Porthos entertaining himself to eat a couple more bites. Athos frowns and gets up, coming over to touch Porthos's shoulder, shushing him. Porthos's laughing stops, and he breathes raggedly for a few moments, tears welling over his cheeks again.

 

“He sounded hysterical,” Athos says. “You're both tired. Perhaps we should sleep.”

 

“Story,” Porthos insists. “I bloody... hurt... please.”

 

“It helped him, before,” Aramis says. “I don't mind.”

 

“Then continue,” Athos says.

 

Athos stops them before Aramis can continue, though. He slides under Porthos's head, lifting him a little more upright, and makes him drink some wine. Aramis drinks some wine himself. Athos stays under Porthos, putting the pillow in his lap, rubbing Porthos's arm and shoulder and back, avoiding the wound.

 

“I was dressed as a monk, so when I walk in, I was just asked where the water was. I did my best terrified impression, gibbering and rolling my eyes all over the room. There were two land owners being held at gun point, and the Cardinal was being played with by a man with a knife and an unhinged look. There were four other men. Two were landowners, two were thugs. Six men in total, three hostages. I went out to get the water.”

 

“Four, six,” Porthos murmurs. “How many, Athos?”

 

“Ten. Two missing,” Athos says.

 

“I found one of them in the kitchen, a pistol on a huddle of monks,” Aramis says. “I shot him. That was a bad choice. When I got to the hallways, one of the men had come to investigate. I had to shoot him, too, if I was to not drop the water. When they heard the second shot, they shot the two landowners. Only reason the Cardinal didn't die is I walked in while the knife owner was still having fun carving shapes into Richelieu's chest.”

 

“Did'j shoot 'im, too?” Porthos murmurs, wine slurring his tongue.

 

“No. I hadn't reloaded. I was a monk with a pitcher of water. I screamed. That brought the last man in, from wherever he'd been. I caught hold of him, and he got shot twice, and their pistols were empty. I killed them. I used the dead-man's pistol, and then I used a knife, and then I used my bare hands. One two three. That's four, plus two, plus three. Nine. There were three men. One with a knife at Richelieu's throat.”

 

“Did the monks come in and save the day?” Athos asks.

 

“I threw myself at the Cardinal, and we all hit the floor while the other two reloaded their pistols. The knife sliced Richelieu's neck and shoulder, but it didn't seem too deep, so I wrestled for the knife. They shot the man, and I threw the knife at the man who still had a shot. Now there was just one, and myself. A fair fight.”

 

“Were you injured?” Athos asks.

 

“Couple of knife wounds, some bruising. One bad wound to my side, right through the muscle. I went for the downed man with the pistol, and I always was quick at reloading. Porthos isn't the only one with quick hands.”

 

“You're not as quick,” Porthos says.

 

“No, but I was quick enough. I moved fast, without really thinking. Then there were none. I bandaged the Cardinal, gave him a loaded pistol, and checked the house top to bottom. Brought the dead bodies in. Richelieu was a little disconcerted, I think. I believe he thought I had killed the monks, as well. We rode back to Paris and he didn't say a word. Seventeen dead bodies, plus the guard who died before we made it to the monastery, and an unconscious monk, and I never heard a word of it. Land owners, too. I never really found out what had happened, but I suspect it was all just huguenot frustration. I knew the landowners. I'd thought them harmless, if unreliable in terms of taxes.”

 

“Richelieu clearly disagreed. It seems he was right.”

 

“Mm. I was sent back to my regiment, and the protestant murmurings were now silent. I still don't know what Richelieu planned for that weekend. I assume he knew that at least one of the landowners was not going to get in line, and I believe he planned to make an example, without really acting. I do not think I was expected to kill everyone.”

 

“It got you a commission in the musketeers,” Athos says.

 

“Yes. I think Richelieu was planning on offering me a promotion to the red guards. I think he still would have, but then Treville saw me seeing to some of the men, doing them up with my thread, and there were rumours, and he offered the musketeers first. The Cardinal called me to the Louvre, and encouraged me to take the offer. I think he wanted a spy. No, I know he did, he wasn't exactly subtle about it. I... I agreed. Actually.”

 

Porthos snorts, then starts the horrible, careful laughter again, pressing himself into Athos's hands as they go to help. Aramis watches, feeling a bit miserable and a lot tired. He eats a bit more, downing some wine before passing the bottle to Athos, who helps Porthos with it. It spills down Porthos's chin, red like blood.

 

“I was sent off into the rain, given all the drudgery, sleeping in the mud. I thought then that I would happily tell the Cardinal all he wanted, if he promised to get me out of it all one day. But, my job was to see to the wounded, when it was needed, and then there was Porthos, more hunch-backed every day, clearly in pain. When you were riding... I thought you'd faint, that night.”

 

“Porthos had experienced much worse,” Athos says, smiling a little bit. “I didn't notice. Was it that bad?”

 

“No,” Porthos says.

 

“No,” Aramis agrees, also smiling. “I think he was making a fuss, because Matthias was watching, and Matthias was cooking, and Porthos was, knowing Porthos, hungry.”

 

“Mm,” Porthos agrees. “Always hungry.”

 

Aramis draws his knife and examines it, checking for blood and dirt, then cuts a slice of tomato and offers it to Porthos. He offer a bit of cheese, two, and Porthos mumbles happily.

 

“You are very easy to please, my friend,” Aramis says. “Richelieu got me spying easily enough. While I was doing the rounds of the nobility, Richelieu was watching me, giving me tips and instruction, moulding me to be stealthier, quieter, to think differently. I would see him often, then. He would appear in carriages, back rooms, my rooms. When I went back to the regiment, I was less comfortable with it. Richelieu promised me advancement, but what really bought me for him... all this time, drop by drop, he was carefully guiding me to ask for something.

 

"Every little hint, every little gesture, making me want. More overtly, making me want power. I noticed that. But, I didn't notice the more covert things, not at first. By the time he needed me heart and soul, I the learning, the access to religious texts, the time and freedom to write, all these things he promised me. He promised me peace. Peace and time to pursue my lapsed religion.”

 

“Not such bad reasons to spy,” Athos says.

 

“I slipped into the role easily enough, I had little holding my loyalty anywhere else. I promised to tell him anything he liked, about all of you. I did tell him a fair bit. Though, the two of you were strangely quiet those first few weeks, I wasn't really aware of you.”

 

“We were wearing out a story,” Athos says. “Neither drunk enough to be belligerent, nor new enough to be of any interest, nor bored enough to have resorted to duelling.”

 

“Ah,” Aramis says. Then, he smiles, wide and happy. “I _did_ tell Richelieu a most interesting tale about an evening in one of the fine drinking establishments of Paris. About a big, noisy, mad musketeer who shot his brother's hat off. I thought it a fine story. Richelieu was a little short with me that afternoon.”

 

Athos laughs softly, and Porthos smiles, a slow, sleepy smile.

 

“I suppose perhaps he'd already heard the one,” Aramis says, reaching out to get hold of Porthos's chin. He turns it into a caress, stroking his cheek, laughing fondly. “You were getting on the Cardinal's nerves, my dear friend, with your habit of shooting things.”

 

“What changed your mind?” Athos asks, serious again.

 

“Other than Porthos's strained back?” Aramis asks. “I don't know. Porthos. Porthos changed my mind. He was so generous with his heat, and so pleased about my taking the pain away. Then he was injured, and tried to knock me out, and you were worried for me. Though very briefly. I would not be happy with such regard these days, my friend.”

 

“I didn't really care that much, so long as you were well enough to sew him up,” Athos says.

 

“Yes, I know,” Aramis says. “Yes. That was you, not caring. Athos, you lovely man, you're not-caring was enough to make me feel like perhaps, after all, I would be better placed with the musketeers. The cardinal's power behind me, and you two cared just enough to make me wonder.

 

"I fall in love. You may have noticed. It's easy for me. In, and out. I knew a girl, when I was young, and I believe I loved her. You two though, you loved whole-heartedly. It seems like it's been said before. You offered me more than the Cardinal ever could.”

 

“I like this story,” Porthos whispers. “Much more than the bit where you kill everyone.”

 

“Still not decided on the matter of killing, Porthos?” Aramis asks, smiling. “Soldiering, spying, the musketeers. When we returned to Paris, I told Richelieu I wouldn't do any more.”

 

“Any reason he didn't just kill you there and then?” Athos asks, dry as dust again.

 

“I didn't just say I wouldn't do it, obviously,” Aramis scoffs. “I learnt from the best, remember. I told Richelieu about a woman, and some reckless pillow talk. And then, later, I told him about a debt that I needed paying. And then there was a woman and I hadn't told her anything exactly, but I may have mentioned I had powerful friends and made her a promise I couldn't keep. In short, I became a liability, and Richelieu stopped asking things of me.”

 

“He's just... left you alone, since?” Athos asks, unbelieving.

 

“Well, there must have come a point... what with the duels, and the,” Aramis gestures between himself and Porthos and Athos. “The stories. Must have come a point when he realised. By then, I was one of the most troublesome of our poor captain Treville's men. Treville is very, very good to us, to his men. He notices those who get into trouble, and most especially notices those who get into trouble, and live. I had also caught the king's attention, by getting myself injured in his defence.”

 

“That one wasn't on purpose,” Athos says.

 

“No, not the injury itself. However, I may have mentioned to one of the noblemen near to the king at the time that I was a little short of ready change, and the king may have recalled my name favourably when the nobleman mentioned it. The king gave me a small token of gratitude. At which point, the queen... she is a woman. I know women.”

 

“Y'really are mush more sheeneeky than I though',” Porthos slurs.

 

“I try not to be,” Aramis says. “I don't like the man Richelieu moulded me into. I don't think much of him. I focused myself on making sure I retained your friendship, and gained Athos's, instead.”

 

“Tell more 'bout th's tw'men, who won you ov'r wiv love,” Porthos says, slow and slower and thick.

 

“Lying by the fire, the night you told me the story about the wolf, I thought you were a little mad. When you tell a story, though, you tell it with your whole body, and your face, and you change your voice. It's an experience. You were sat, feet planted flat, knees up, leaning forward to gesture, face alight. I've never seen anything like it. So fierce, but so delighted. Then I looked at Athos, and he watching you. When you gave the punchline about skewering it, and Athos made the crack about the painting, Athos looked so fond. Athos was, to me, so far, just a grouchy, surly, silent-”

 

“We get the idea,” Athos says, cutting off the list.

 

“You don't notice it, and I'm glad, but sometimes when you look at Porthos, or now when you look at me, you... you soften. Relax. I don't see you smile for other people the way you do for us. That lip of yours with its scar, curling upwards, eyes entirely present for once. Soft and fond and very, very beautiful.”

 

Athos ducks his head, hiding whatever his face tells. Aramis smiles, tired, so tired, and so fond and glad. Porthos breaks the gentle quiet as it settles with a monstrous snore, cut short as his breath runs against his sore ribs and whistles out again. Athos is startled into a rare, short laugh, and they stare at one another, waiting. Porthos breathes shallowly around his various aches, then comes another great snore. Aramis giggles, putting his empty plate aside and wriggling until he's lying down.

 

“This is going to be a long night,” Athos says, as Porthos does his snort-wheeze again. “I'll sit up with him, you sleep. You are exhausted, to be telling such stories.”

 

Aramis hums in agreement, reaching out until he's touching Porthos, just his fingertips. He falls asleep between one snorting snore and another, the gentle wheezes sending him off.

 


End file.
